


When He Closes His Eyes

by the_write_day



Category: Parked (2010)
Genre: Gen, Mentions other characters, One Shot, but FRIENDS, not father-son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27059089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_write_day/pseuds/the_write_day
Summary: Rather than sit in his car for hours, Fred goes to find Cathal.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	When He Closes His Eyes

Horror knotted his stomach as he slowly approached the beaten yellow car, and it mixed uneasily with the anger still there, that Cathal had lied to him all this time, that he was injecting, that he was the scumbag he’d professed not to be. The word flashed through Fred’s mind even as he looked over and saw part of it written in bright red paint across the side of his own car, and he hurried over to it, panic starting to bite the heels of the horror. He pulled the keys from his pocket as he ducked down, searching the interior, making sure no one was hiding in there waiting for him.

When the key touched the door’s lock, he paused. The queasy mixture of anger and horror and panic was quickly making it hard to breathe, but his fingers tightened into a fist around his keys, his mouth firmed into a tight line, and he turned around. Keeping his keys in hand, one sticking out between his forefinger and middle finger just in case, he walked over to Cathal’s car. Glass crunched under his shoes, making his shoulders knot, and he peered intently inside. Nothing but more broken glass, the smashed windshield lying in the passenger seat.

He glanced down, then bent over to pick up the watch lying on the ground. Cathal’s dad’s watch, something he’d never leave behind if given the choice. Broken at the top band. The face smeared with blood.

Fred’s mouth loosened with his heavy breathing, and the panic was trying to overwhelm everything else. But no, _no_. He had to think. Part of him thought _so be it_ ; he’d warned and warned and warned Cathal about the drugs, about what he drew on himself in that world. He’d listened to Cathal’s lies about giving up. He’d _believed_ him, _trusted_ him, and all the time Cathal was lying.

_“Have you ever seen the actual moment when a leaf breaks from its branch?”_

Jesus, Cathal.

Fred dropped the watch into his pocket, and he started to run.

_[tick]_

He’d lied himself when he said the only exercise he got was puzzles. Fred could run when he needed to, and right now, he needed to. It burned through him, or maybe that was the lack of oxygen as his feet hit the pavement, and let’s be honest, he hadn’t done this in a long time, hadn’t run so hard in a good twenty years. But he had to move, he had to run faster than he ever had to get to—

Where?

Where the hell was he going?

He came to a jagged halt, breathing raggedly, only now feeling the stitch in his side before pressing a hand to it. Realization hit him colder than the sea breeze, colder than the coldest winter day, because he had no idea where Cathal was. What if his dealer had taken him? What if he were already…

No. He didn’t—couldn’t—think that right now. He’d do this logically. Blood indicated Cathal was injured. If he were injured, he would seek medical attention. Well, no, he probably wouldn’t, but Cathal cared about his appearance. If he were injured, he would want to clean himself up.

Realization firmed into resolve, and Fred started walking again. Not quite a run this time, but a jog, and he reached the sports center faster than he ever had before, to no avail. Cathal was nowhere to be seen. Fred hesitated a second, then took a long shot.

Cathal was in the toilets Fred had previously used for washing. He leaned against the wall beside one of the sinks, the water running, and he was gingerly patting his face with a wet paper towel when Fred walked in. Fred took a sharp breath when he saw the boy, part unyielding relief that Cathal was—basically—on his feet, part dismay at the state of him, and part anger. Yes, he was still so angry, and he thought all the blood only made him angrier. He wasn’t Cathal’s mother, or his grandmother, or his grandda, but Goddammit Cathal was _better_ than this.

He strode over to the boy, who had his eyes closed as he wiped his forehead, and only when Fred got close enough did he hear the tiny whimpers Cathal was making in the back of his throat. Those desperate little sounds hit Fred like a punch, like a thousand punches all over his body, and he hadn’t realized how much he cared. He was a fool, but Cathal was yet the bigger one.

“Give me that,” he said crisply, and Cathal’s eyes flew open.

He stared at Fred for a beat, two, long enough for a tear to slip from the corner of his eye. Then he dropped the paper towel in the trash bin. “Go away, Fred.”

“No.” He grabbed another paper towel from the dispenser and wet it in the running water. “We need to get you to the clinic.”

“Go back to your car, Fred.”

“No.” He thought about mentioning his car’s new paint job, but it felt unnecessary when he saw how Cathal hugged his arm to his body at an awkward angle. “Jesus, Cathal.”

Fred was unprepared when Cathal broke. Suddenly the boy was sobbing, harsh, angry noises clawing out of his throat, chest heaving with the effort to breathe through those devastating sounds. Completely broken, and Fred could only stand for a moment, awkward and uncomfortable. Then he reached forward, hesitating for just a breath before resting his hand lightly on Cathal’s shoulder.

_[tock]_

They finished cleaning Cathal up the best they could at the sink. Then Fred took him to the clinic, attached to the shelter. They charged on a sliding scale, and Fred promised to pay once he received his first assistance payment. The manager almost refused before Peter came in, and they sorted it quickly between each other.

Wrapped and bandaged but only given over-the-counter painkillers, Cathal leaned heavily on Fred as they walked back to the carpark. He didn’t say anything, his eyes glazed and unseeing. Fred didn’t have anything to say, either. Maybe because there were too many things he _wanted_ to say.

 _Cathal, you’re such an idiot_.

_Cathal, I’m spending my money on you instead of a house._

_Cathal, don’t you_ understand _?_

He didn’t say any of that. Instead, he helped Cathal to their bench facing the sea. Cathal sat woodenly for a second, then his eyes slipped closed, and he turned his face to the sun.

_[tick]_

“I’m sorry.”

Fred sat beside Cathal, looking ahead rather than at the boy. “Do you know what you’re apologizing for?”

“Lying to you.” His mouth twisted. “For continuing to lie to you. Because I’m a druggie, Fred. That’s what I do.”

“It’s not what you _have_ to do.” Fred turned to regard him. “You’re a good lad.” He cleared his throat, eyes darting away briefly before coming back to Cathal. In that quick glance away, Cathal had opened his eyes and was now looking at him. Fred made himself meet that gaze as he said, “You’re my friend. Cathal, you mean an awful lot to me. You’ve made me see things I thought I’d never see again. I only wish I could do the same for you.”

Tears glittered along Cathal’s lower lashes, but they stayed there, swimming silently. His mouth twisted again, and he shifted slightly on the bench, then that crooked grin quirked his lips. “I never thought I’d see you do a handbrake turn. _Twice_. That was pretty special.”

 _So are you_. The words would’ve been even more awkward aloud than just in Fred’s head. Instead, he only gave a jerky nod. “And it was because of you. So…thanks, Cathal.”

The tears finally fell down his cheeks, the tracks like diamond paths in the sunlight, but Cathal’s smile was the sweetest thing he’d ever seen in his life. “You’re welcome, Fred.”

Silence descended for a long, agonizing moment before Fred cleared the knot that had formed in his throat. “You once said we’d get me sorted. Now it’s your turn.”

_[tock]_

They sat there until Peter arrived hours later, the newswoman following just after. They hadn’t touched either of the cars, and Cathal stayed silent on the bench, hiding his bandages behind a jacket Fred had pulled out for him, as Fred and Peter explained to the woman that such conditions were the dangers of living on the streets. Fred completed the interview, stood for the photos, and felt like a fool. Cathal never made a sound, and the newswoman and photographer didn’t even seem to notice him sitting there.

“Thanks, Peter,” Fred said, waving to the man as he drove away after the news team. Then he turned and walked back to join Cathal.

The boy’s head was slumped to the side, eyes closed, and Fred felt an immediate lurch in his belly before the eyes opened to look at him. Cathal straightened his head with a yawn as Fred sat beside him. “Nicely done,” the boy said with a grin, a teasing glint to his eyes.

Fred gave him a disapproving frown. “I’m a fool. I never should’ve agreed to this.”

“Sure you should’ve,” Cathal said, and his voice was easy, calm, not like pain was throbbing beneath the bandages Fred could see. “People eat this shite up. You’ll be sorted in no time, man.”

“How would you know?” Fred’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You were in the paper once. What for?”

“Thought you didn’t want to know, that?”

“At my age, I’m entitled to change my mind.”

Cathal let out that hoarse wheeze of a laugh. “You are up there, eh. Well, if you must know, I placed for a piano recital when I was eleven.” He looked out to the sea as Fred digested that unexpected piece of information. Cathal’s mouth twisted a bit before curving into a soft smile. “My mum made me the biggest cake that night, bigger than birthdays. My da said I could only have one piece, but she gave me two.”

“Spoiled you rotten, didn’t she?”

The soft smile took on a pained edge, and Fred regretted the comment. Cathal only shrugged, though. “When she could. Da was always strict.”

Silence fell, as the sun did in the distance. Fred shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket when a wind twirled through his hair. He breathed out and saw his breath on the air. “You’ll stay in my car tonight. We’ll figure something else out tomorrow.”

Cathal gingerly looked round. “There’s not room for both of us there.”

“You can’t stay in yours.” Neither of them looked at the wrecked mess of the yellow thing, at the dried blood still smearing the pavement. “We’ll make it work.”

_[tick]_

They made it work. The next day, a new car pulled in. Cathal watched over the driver’s seat, safe in the heated interior of the car. Fred stood near the boot, tense and ready, torch in hand and hidden behind his leg.

An elderly woman stepped from the car. She smiled tenderly at him as she approached, then held her hand out. Between her fingers was clasped a 20. She didn’t say a word, didn’t even blink, just stood there with a smile until he took the money. Then she nodded, turned, and departed.

Fred looked at the money in his hand, then turned to look at Cathal, who was laughing against the seat.

That woman was only the first. As morning moved into afternoon, a steady stream of cars swung into the carpark to deposit money into Fred’s hand before departing. Fred put Cathal in charge of it, and at one point their eyes met. He wanted Cathal to know how much trust he was putting in him as the bills grew, and grew, and grew. Yes, he was still angry. It was an exposed nerve that throbbed any time he came near it. But he still trusted Cathal.

Cathal kept an exact record of every donation.

Then a large car pulled in. The man didn’t have any money to offer, but he owned a house with a vacant flat. Did Fred want to look at it?

Yes, yes he did.

_[tock]_

The flat was beautiful and luxuriously big not only compared to his car but also his flat back in London. Fred agreed to a reasonable rate, and the man gave him the keys to move in immediately.

He returned to the carpark to find Cathal on the bench. He sat beside him, and Cathal glanced sideways at him. “How are the accommodations?”

“Suitable. Let me see the money.”

Cathal didn’t hesitate, simply reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded stack of bills. Fred took it and thumbed through it quickly, aware of Cathal watching him sideways still. His heart was pounding too hard when he finished counting. 608 euros. He swallowed, but the decision had been made as soon as he saw the flat.

He tilted to face Cathal, then peeled eight euros from the stack and proffered the rest. Cathal only stared at the money, until Fred grew impatient. “You know what this is for.”

“No, Fred. That’s your money.”

“It is my money, and I’m using it for a good purpose. There’s a string attached.” Cathal looked up to meet his gaze, and the knowledge was already there, but Fred nodded anyway. “You’ve promised and swore before, but like I said, talk is cheap. If you take this money, you’re done with drugs. Forever.”

Cathal’s lips twisted. “It’s not that easy.”

“I’m going to make it easy. Or as easy as I can. You’ll stay with me. You’ll sober up. You’ll get a job. You’ll become the person I _know_ you are, Cathal.”

Silence stretched, stretched, and Fred’s heart was pounding yet harder. He wanted—no, he _needed_ Cathal to accept this opportunity. He needed Cathal to let him save him.

Finally, Cathal smiled, and it was the new sweetest thing Fred had ever seen.

_[tick]_

They moved into the flat. They’d been separated by five parking spaces and steel doors before, so becoming roommates was a new experience for them both. Fred hated how Cathal drank straight from the milk carton, but he’d stand close to listen outside the door when he sang in the shower. Maybe it was creepy, but he couldn’t stop himself.

This time, Cathal was true to his word. He kicked the drugs. It was not an easy process, and Fred held the boy’s head over the toilet more times than not for several weeks. He endured the crying and screaming and shaking. He put cold compresses on the boy’s forehead when he drifted into uneasy sleep. He politely declined Jules’s offer to spell him on several occasions.

He needed to get Cathal through this. He needed to make sure there was no backslide.

When he had moments to himself, he worked on fixing Cathal’s watch.

_[tock]_

Months later, nothing had changed, but everything had. Cathal would always be a pasty Irish boy, but his pallor was no longer corpse-like. His eyes were no longer shadowed. His hair had thickened. Fred was in talks to get his teeth fixed. His fixed watch was back round his wrist.

More than that, he was in Jules’s church choir. His long ago scoff that it wasn’t really his thing proved the last lie because he…Fred hated to think _blossomed_ because Cathal could in no way be compared to a flower—Fred still shared a bathroom with him, he knew what he was talking about—but he had. He’d made friends. He laughed even more, from a good hearty place in his belly. And he took it seriously, like the responsibility it was.

Sometimes he sat with Jules and they did a duet on the piano. No seat was empty on those special occasions.

_[tick]_

Fred couldn’t remember how he found out, but he knew Cathal’s birthday. He bought a cake. He briefly thought about making one, then just as quickly dismissed it for the disaster it would be.

Cathal liked strawberry cake with chocolate frosting. Fred didn’t judge, though silently he wondered what was wrong with white cake. He still cut two pieces and put them on Cathal’s plate, and Cathal laughed with utter delight, like the night they’d run from the make-out king.

Later, they practiced their handbrake turns.

_[tock]_

Months passed. Cathal performed a solo event, singing as he played the piano. Fred saw Cathal’s father slip in undetected at the back of the church. He kept one eye on the other man throughout Cathal’s performance, unsure of what he intended to do. But the man was still present when Cathal gave his finishing bow, so Fred nudged him in that direction.

Panic flashed through Cathal’s eyes when he saw his dad, but Fred rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He didn’t follow them when father and son went out the front door. He even smiled when Jules slipped her hand into his. But he wasn’t sure smiling was what he wanted to do.

_[tick]_

Later that night, Fred gave a disgruntled snort when he saw Cathal drinking from the milk carton. “Won’t you ever learn?”

“Won’t you?” Cathal shot back with a grin, then wiggled the carton to show it was empty.

“That doesn’t matter. Don’t be a pig.”

“Harsh. Anything else you want to say to me?”

_[tock]_

Blue eyes looked right at him, and Fred couldn’t look away, couldn’t account for the panic suddenly rushing through his belly. Cathal quirked his brows, and Fred opened his mouth, feeling a flood of words getting caught in his throat. Suddenly there were all the things he wanted to say, but he couldn’t—

_[tick]_

—get them out fast enough, or in the order he wanted to. “Cathal, you’re…I mean, really, stop drinking from the carton, and this is what I wanted for you, and I’ve got your dental appointment scheduled next week. I’m really proud of you. I’m not your father, I don’t think I should be, but I’m your friend. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Cathal. I wanted this chance, I wanted to show you that you can be more than you’ve been, no matter what—”

_[tock]_

“—you’ve gone through. You’re more than that. You _can_ make it in life.” Cathal continued gazing at him wordlessly, and Fred clung to those blue eyes for a reason he couldn’t fathom. “You were—I mean, you are so important to me, and all I ever wanted was—”

“Fred.”

_[tick]_

“—to save you.”

The words are spoken to a dark room, light just edging the curtains of the window beside the bed Fred lies in. For a moment after, he can’t breathe, as the panic and regret and guilt and shame and…and just the _pain_ of it all roll over him in suffocating waves.

_tock. tick. tock. tick. tock._

The sound of Jules’s clock—the one he’d fixed three years ago—gets louder and louder in his ears, until it begins to push back against the nauseating emotions stabbing inside his brain. Next he hears the soft sound of Jules breathing beside him in the bed, and that helps too.

But when he closes his eyes, he sees the blue gaze staring back at him. He can almost hear his name in Cathal’s voice, and it's not the last anguished yell. He hears his own voice, and the last thing he says to Cathal isn’t an infuriated shout of _“Enough!”_ but rather the truth: an acknowledgement of how important Cathal had been to him.

When he closes his eyes, he hasn’t failed Cathal. He hasn’t left Cathal in the dark wood, lost from the true path. His last view of him is a healthy, sober twenty-two-year-old young man finally finding his way in the world, not a pale, still body in a box, with a small black book resting above his interlaced fingers, an unheard “thanks” hanging in the air.

That's only when he closes his eyes, though.

Fred rolls to his side, sliding an arm over Jules’s waist, and closes his eyes. A tear trickles down his temple.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did the "all just a dream" trope, and sorry/not sorry for it. I'm a strong believer in sticking to canon, but everybody let Cathal down. Maybe it couldn't have ended any other way, but maybe it could've, and I needed this "what if?" even if it's Fred's dream version.


End file.
